


Plaintext

by pomegrenadier



Series: Knife to a Gunfight [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Imperial Agent Content, Cybernetics, Gen, Horror, Loss of Identity, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Body Modification
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27505771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: The early days at Imperial Intelligence.
Series: Knife to a Gunfight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010199
Comments: 96
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to evil spies murder & lies, can i take your order?

DAY 1 POST-SESSION INTERVIEW  
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS ...

SUBJECT: What ... happened?  
MINDER 26: Easy, there. You did beautifully. How are you feeling?  
SUBJECT: I don't—I don't know. I don't—why is it so quiet? Everything is—  
MINDER 26: That's entirely normal after such a procedure. Don't worry. Everything will be fine.  
SUBJECT: Who are you?  
MINDER 26: I'm here to make you better. Can you tell me your name?  
SUBJECT: ... Kiall. I think. Is that right?  
MINDER 26: That's right. Now sleep.

END TRANSCRIPT.

* * *

DAY 3 POST-SESSION INTERVIEW  
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS ...

MINDER 26: How are you feeling?  
SUBJECT: Hurts. It—it h-hurts.  
MINDER 26: That's entirely normal after such a procedure. Don't worry. Everything will be fine.  
SUBJECT: Who ...  
MINDER 26: I'm here to make you better. Can you tell me your name?  
SUBJECT: ... Name?  
MINDER 26: It's all right if you can't remember.  
SUBJECT: I—no, I can't, what did you ... I can't remem ... remember, it's too quiet—why is it _cold?_ My, my head—it hurts, why does it hurt so m-much—please—  
MINDER 26: Change is often painful. Don't fight it. Now sleep.

END TRANSCRIPT.

* * *

DAY 4 POST-SESSION INTERVIEW  
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS ...

MINDER 26: How are you feeling?  
SUBJECT: I don't know.  
MINDER 26: That's entirely normal after such a procedure. Don't worry. Everything will be fine.  
SUBJECT: [no response]  
MINDER 26: Can you tell me your name?  
SUBJECT: Do I have one?  
MINDER 26: You do not.  
SUBJECT: Oh.  
MINDER 26: Any pain? Headache?  
SUBJECT: No.  
MINDER 26: Good. You're nearly done, then.  
SUBJECT: Done with what?  
MINDER 26: Preparing you for duty.  
SUBJECT: [no response]  
MINDER 26: [sighs] Hate the blank slate stage ... Now sleep.

END TRANSCRIPT.

* * *

DAY 6 POST-SESSION INTERVIEW  
BEGIN TRANSCRIPT ...

MINDER 26: How are—  
SUBJECT: Who are you? What is this place?  
MINDER 26: Lively today, aren't we? I'm Minder Twenty-Six. I work for Imperial Intelligence, as do you. We're currently in one of the sublevels beneath headquarters. How are you feeling?  
SUBJECT: Bored. Cold.  
MINDER 26: Don't worry, you'll have plenty to occupy yourself with shortly. The cold is illusory, a common side effect of the psychological conditioning you've been undergoing. It will fade in time. Although, admittedly, it could also be a side effect of the abominable climate control down here.  
SUBJECT: I assume that's why I can't remember how I got here. The conditioning, not the climate control.  
MINDER 26: Ha! You assume correctly. Oh, I love it when the baby agents are quick on the uptake, makes this entire process so much less tedious. [clears throat] Can you tell me your name?  
SUBJECT: ... No. Why?  
MINDER 26: It's an assessment tool. Occasionally we'll see a subject whose mind just won't let go of the past. They tend to snap. You appear to have dodged that particular blaster bolt. Congratulations.  
SUBJECT: And the point of all this is ...?  
MINDER 26: Preparing you for duty.  
SUBJECT: Bit cryptic.  
MINDER 26: Allow me to elaborate, then. You're scheduled to begin training as soon as I clear you for it. After that ... well. Preliminary tests indicated field agent potential, perhaps even Cipher potential, but the final decision is in Keeper's hands.  
SUBJECT: The director of Operations.  
MINDER 26: Indeed. [pause] You haven't asked about your name.  
SUBJECT: Is that a question, Minder Twenty-Six?  
MINDER 26: Do you want to know it?  
SUBJECT: Would you tell me if I did?  
MINDER 26: Would you trust me if I told you?  
SUBJECT: Why should I?  
MINDER 26: [laughing] Ah, that _is_ the question. For whatever it's worth, your name is Kiall Telassa, though nobody's going to call you that on the job. Do with it what you will. In the mean time ... It's been a pleasure working on you, truly, but I think you're ready to join the real kids upstairs. Welcome to Imperial Intelligence.

END TRANSCRIPT.

LOGGING OUT.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which our intrepid protagonist discovers a Preference
> 
> (where is this going? what am i doing? NO IDEA.)

The face in the mirror is his, supposedly. Light skin, brown hair, straight nose. Unremarkable facial structure. The eyes are notably absent, replaced by cybernetic implants. The lenses are lit from within by faint red light.

He taps the edge of the left lens. He can feel the slight impact deep in his head. More than just external lenses, then. Significantly more. And while it doesn't hurt, there is a rawness to the sensation that implies a great deal of pain in ... well. Not recent _memory._ But recently.

He turns—but not as far as muscle memory expects; apparently his peripheral vision is better than it was—to the low table in the room outside the 'fresher. The datapad on it. His personnel file. The image at the top of the screen is clear even from this far back. This face, scowling and grey-eyed, above an Imperial Army uniform.

No reaction. Not even recognition. There's no sense of connection to the image, or the reflection.

He's not sure how he knows, but that seems unusual. Granted, he's not sure how he knows most things. Much of the knowledge is too comprehensive and detailed and often _inane_ for flash training—surely the Empire wouldn't pay Minder Twenty-Six to insert the idea that if he went outside and made his way to the transit station, the leftmost turnstile would be out of order again. Lingering information from before, presumably.

So. No particular opinion about his appearance. No particular opinion about the cybernetics.

Speaking of ... He activates the UV sensors. Somehow. _That_ is almost certainly flash training.

Ultraviolet, infrared, night vision—he has to shut that one off in a hurry; the lights in the 'fresher are blindingly bright. Overlays to track vitals, to mark targets. Useful in the field, less so in temporary quarters inside the Intelligence complex. He clears the display, and his vision goes back to baseline. "Normal" is probably not the right term.

Minder Twenty-Six said he had potential as a field agent. Investing this much in expensive cybernetics before he's even completed training indicates that they're confident he's worth the risk. Unless he already did ... but she said he'd _begin_ once she cleared him. He frowns, drifts back into the main room, picks up the datapad, and skims the open file.

It's ... sparse. Image, name, planet of origin. Date of enlistment in the Imperial Army. Date of transfer to Imperial Intelligence. Evaluation notes—excelling in stealth and infiltration.

Ambiguous note about unspecified medical procedures, maybe the optics. Date of intake for psychological conditioning, just under a week ago. Date of completion and release, today, timestamped around midmorning. No indication as to why he underwent any of it. Whether or not it was voluntary.

Does he care either way? Does it make a difference? Tentative no, but he's not sure if that's more of the same disconnection as with the name on the file or the face in the mirror, or something else.

It occurs to him that he hasn't experienced any strong emotional reactions since waking up, but he keeps expecting to have them.

Huh.

... That turned a bit recursive. He stares at the datapad for a moment, then stows it and strides towards the exit. Minder Twenty-Six said he'd be under careful observation for the first twenty-four hours, to "ensure that nothing has gone awry," but he's free to move about the facility.

He won't learn anything else in this room. Time to go for a walk.

* * *

Navigation isn't a problem, as long as he doesn't think about it too hard. Trying to determine how or if he really knows something tends to result in halting in the middle of intersections as he second- and third- and fourth-guesses every choice. Paying attention to his surroundings and letting his feet carry him on a hall-by-hall tour of the facility's ground level is far more effective than attempting to go anywhere in particular. He commits the layout to memory, actual memory, and notes the labeled rooms, corridors, and lifts. He doesn't even have to crane his neck or get too close to anything specific, courtesy of the wide peripherals and enhanced acuity. _Very_ useful.

There are people everywhere. Grey uniforms, some street clothes, usually armed. Mostly human, with a smattering of Chiss and every so often another alien. A few Zabraks, a Togruta, a Miraluka.

He keeps walking at a reasonable pace, as if he's got somewhere to be, and they pay him no attention at all. No one stops him, no one cares. They're busy, and he's obviously quite busy too, and therefore he's invisible. It's ... satisfying. He doesn't know how he'd interact with anyone who did take an interest, so it's also convenient.

He takes a turn into a deserted corridor towards the back of the facility. There's a security camera at the end of it, just before it bends rightward. He can see the lens turn and adjust to focus on him. _Under observation._ He isn't sure whether to acknowledge whichever Minder is watching him now, or continue on his way as if he hasn't noticed.

Their reaction, if there is a reaction, could be informative. He'll learn nothing at all through feigned ignorance. So he gives a languid salute as he approaches the turn.

The camera tracks him, smooth and quiet as it turns in its housing.

The back of his neck prickles all the way down the next corridor. It is not a feeling he enjoys. At all. Which ... probably qualifies as a strong reaction.

Not quite what he set out to learn, but it's something.

* * *

Nineteen minutes later, as he's making his way back towards the temporary quarters, Minder Twenty-Six strides out of an unlabeled room just ahead of him. He stops. She approaches, one brow raised. "Casing the joint, are we?" she says.

"Orienting," he replies.

"Not _re-_ orienting? Hmm." She smiles. It's almost kindly. Almost. "You've been awake for nearly six hours and you haven't eaten. I suggest you remedy that. Maybe get to know your fellow trainees in the canteen. I trust you can find it."

"Yes, sir."

"Off you go." She's watching him. It feels like the camera in the empty corridor.

Twenty-four hours—eighteen, now. What did she conclude, from the wandering, from the salute? What is she looking for? He doesn't like not knowing.

Which is why he saluted the camera. He wanted a reaction; here it is. An opportunity to find out more. So he takes it. "What constitutes _something going awry?"_ he says.

Minder Twenty-Six blinks, then laughs. "Oh, blackouts, seizures, loss of motor function, catastrophic executive decay ... Happened to one of my early subjects. She had to be put down. Terrible waste. Don't worry, I've improved since then. Lighter touch, you know. If you haven't already collapsed, you're probably fine."

She wants a reaction, too. And given what he knows of Intelligence—however he knows it—there's more to _awry_ than _completely nonfunctional._ They could keep watch on him in a far more controlled environment, if that were the sole priority. So it's something else.

She _suggested_ the canteen, mentioned other trainees. Social test, then. He's managed to avoid interacting with anyone else thus far, so it's still an unknown, for both of them.

"I'll try not to make a mess when I keel over," he says.

She laughs again. "Go on, then."

He goes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big thank you to [depizan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/depizan) and [doomhamster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomhamster) for valuable insight and babble-enablement <3

The canteen is crowded. Loud, in the way of large spaces with awful acoustics. It might be deliberate, here; the echoes mask individual conversations, smear them into an undifferentiated mass of sound. There's a backwards kind of privacy in that.

There are still cameras everywhere. Intelligence takes internal security quite seriously, after all.

He finds a small group of people in trainee uniforms moving through the line. He copies them, from a few meters back, close enough to see what they're doing but distant enough to have a bit of lead time and not make it obvious what he's doing.

Food acquired, he veers off into the maze of tables and chairs and chatter. No bursts of insight to indicate where he's supposed to go now. He selects a centrally located table with open seats and angles in that direction for lack of any better ideas. Physical clusters correspond to social groups. There are more than a few individual trainees scattered across the room, one or two spaces between them and the next person, but he doubts that isolating himself will provide any useful data, for anyone, himself included.

On the other hand ... he's not exactly keen on inserting himself into an existing social group.

(Did he have one, before?)

He takes a seat one chair over from a mid-sized cluster of trainees. He gets a few glances, and then most of them return to their ongoing conversations. Good. The acoustics may be questionable but he can still catch some of what they—and the other groups around him—are saying.

* * *

"Is he ... aw, he's sitting all alone and taking notes. You sure you didn't overdo it?"

"Bring up the datapad screen feed. We'll find out."

* * *

CONNECTING ...  
SECURE CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.  
DISPLAY DOCUMENT.

*UNTITLED.TXT

**Recruit Sources**

  * Military. Plurality (majority?) of personnel drawn from Army/Navy/Ministry of Logistics/etc. (Inter-service tension/resentment? "Poached by Intelligence" common refrain, but most military recruits seem pleased to be here.) Some lingering competitive feeling between branches.
  * Orphanage. Something to prove, inexperienced but motivated. Easy to underestimate. Don't.
  * Criminal. Recruited for skill rather than attitude. Interesting stories. Some resentful of new circumstances, some eager/relieved.
  * Eugenics programs. Highly specialized. Often cluster together. Some tension w/ unmodified military transfers. More w/ criminals. Degree of social engagement/aptitude varies by individual.
  * "Clean slate." Used as euphemism for psychologically conditioned trainees.
  * Civilian. Often slicers, corporate or university backgrounds. Some recruited for other reasons, unusual circumstances, displays of cunning/ruthlessness, etc.



* * *

"You do realize he's supposed to be an infiltrator, not an anthropologist, right? I really think you overdid it."

"Would you want to jump into a social minefield you had no context for, Fixer?"

* * *

**Common Conversation Topics**

  * Weather patterns (complaints)
  * Instructors (complaints)
  * Training curriculum (assessment, complaints, boasting)
  * Huttball (analysis, speculation, complaints)
  * _Inter-ministry_ huttball??? (even more analysis and speculation; tournament ended recently)
  * Interpersonal dynamics (incomprehensible)
  * Personal history, family, etc. (affection, complaints)
  * Politics (often euphemism, suggestion, observation rather than definitive opinions)
  * Media (recommendations, analysis ... complaints, complaints, complaints)
  * Complaints (complaints)



* * *

"Someone's got a bitchy streak. Holdover, or your doing?"

"Interesting question."

"Fine, fine, don't tell me."

* * *

Question raised three times in 1 hour: "Does Intelligence lose the inter-ministry huttball tournament every year on purpose?"

**Arguments ...**

  * Yes: soften blow of stealing personnel from other services
  * Yes: lull other services into false sense of security outside of huttball and make internal manipulation, deception, assassination easier
  * Yes: ImpInt sends weedy analysts to compete against hardened field archaeologists from Rec Service, we're smarter than that, surely there's an ulterior motive
  * No: field agents are in the field, analysts are only personnel available, losing streak is predictable result of unfortunate circumstance
  * No: "Stop picking on the analysts, they're trying their best."
  * No: ImpInt has better things to do than manipulate people by throwing huttball matches.
  * Yes: ImpInt CAN manipulate people by throwing huttball matches, with deliberately minimal investment, so why not?
  * Yes: ImpInt benefits from speculation as to whether or not it's throwing huttball matches.
  * Conclusion: I don't care about huttball.



* * *

"Minder, it occurs to me that you've served on the huttball team selection committee for several years."

"I can neither confirm nor deny any intent behind our team composition or performance."

"Of course, of course."

* * *

**Media Under Discussion**

  * "Love Was Her Duty," Sith opera, allegedly "overwrought but in a fun way"
  * "Storm of Passion," Sith opera, extremely misleading title: political drama about pre-war Dark Councilors, not romance
  * "Stardrift VII," action holofilm, tepid sequel to a tepid sequel to etc.
  * "The Return," historical drama about Korriban campaign
  * "Hero of Druckenwell," Moff Broysc biopic, star actor is considered very attractive, endless dissection of nude scene



* * *

"I think the nude scene was a bit distasteful, personally."

"But it did generate interest in Navy enlistment."

"True."

* * *

  * FOUR TIMES
  * MINIMAL VARIATION
  * ARE THEY BRAINWASHED
  * Amended conclusion: I hate huttball.



* * *

"... Yeah, he'll do just fine. Wait, what's—"

* * *

> CLOSE DOCUMENT  
DO YOU WANT TO SAVE CHANGES TO "UNTITLED.TXT" BEFORE CLOSING?  
> DON'T SAVE  
DOCUMENT CLOSED.

* * *

"I suspect he's had enough for one day."

"And there he goes ... Didn't talk to anyone. I'm almost disappointed. And why delete the notes?"

"Why indeed."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know how people will fade-to-black for sex scenes? i do that for awkward conversations.

The network connection activated some fifteen minutes in. He wasn't using the holonet at the time. Chances are, Minder Twenty-Six has already seen everything.

So why did he delete the document rather than save it?

He's already on the record. Security footage. Medical files. The note document was just the first piece of data he created himself. And it was never exactly private. So—what? What was he so afraid of? Was he even afraid?

It did feel instinctive. Emotion-driven. But he doesn't know what exactly drove it, or _why._ And that's ... irritating.

He leaves the canteen and its accursed huttball mind games, and takes a roundabout route back towards the temporary quarters. It's late; some of the staff are going home for the evening. He veers towards the entrance area, a tall atrium with a sweeping view of Kaas City through the windows. People trickle out the doors in ones and twos and threes, some talking, others silent. There are very few trainees in the atrium, but he spots two of them near the eastern wall, deep in conversation.

Minder Twenty-Six never said this little social test had to occur in any particular location.

* * *

"Oh no. Ohhhhh no. No ... No, no, no ... Oh _no_."

"Astute assessment."

"Emperor's bollocks. You did overdo it. You _fried_ him."

"If he'd handled that interaction well, I would have considered it a failure."

"... What?"

"I gutted that man's mind and sculpted what was left into something meant to _adapt._ My subjects start at zero, yes, but they don't stop there. Hacks like Minder Seven and Forty-Five try to cram all the rules and tricks into their heads at once, or leave in enough of the original personality to serve the same function. You know what happens then?"

"Erm—"

"They get comfortable. Overconfident. And then they falter when they encounter a situation they weren't already prepared for. My subjects' average life expectancy is _ten years,_ Fixer Thirty. Seven and Forty-Five's combined average is _fou_ _r._ Why do you think Keeper was willing to sign off on the prototype?"

"All right, all right, I bow to your expertise, but that was still bloody painful to watch."

"Oh, absolutely, that was agonizing and I will not be reviewing it again."

* * *

That ... could have gone better.

A hollow squirming feeling follows him back to the temporary quarters. His shoulders are tense. He wonders if he just demonstrated sufficient ineptitude to warrant a reprimand. Or another visit to the sublevels.

Immediately after that thought, there's a sensation like ice splintering between his lungs.

The door seals behind him. He exhales slowly, holds for a few seconds, inhales, holds, repeats. The ice gradually subsides. He checks the datapad again. There's a new message—he's scheduled to report to the training grounds tomorrow at 0800, which is several hours before the promised twenty-four-hour observation period ends.

Good. Something to _do_ sounds like an improvement, whether or not his brain ends up melting in the middle of it. And interaction or no interaction, at least there'll be an immediate purpose beyond the interaction itself.

In the mean time, his only connection to the larger galaxy is a datapad with a perfectly functional holonet link, and his only context comes from a remarkably uninformative personnel file.

It's either a trap or an invitation. Might as well take his observers up on it.

He retreats to the desk in the corner, and looks up the planet of origin named in the file. Beshka, agricultural world in the Aparo Sector of the Outer Rim, conquered during the initial Imperial offensive some thirty years ago. The listed date of birth is several years after that. He finds holos of the planet's surface: fields of yellow and dusty-purple grain, a city center with an apparent fondness for ovals in architecture, a festival of some kind, a few shots of bombed-out rural settlements, Imperial banners unfurling above the planetary capitol.

Searching the name from the file yields nothing, which could mean anything—colony records aren't always remote-accessible or comprehensive, he may have been an incredibly boring person, something could have been deliberately erased ...

Looking up unit data from the Imperial Army is more productive. There was indeed a Private Telassa in one of the platoons stationed on Zilior. Searching for that unit turns up another image: a group holo of the person from the file among six other soldiers, all smiling.

All listed as deceased. Further information is classified, and while he could probably keep digging, use Intelligence credentials or brute-force it ... does he want to?

He sets the datapad down on the desk and sits back. No. He does not _want to_ _._ It would just be a demonstration of technical skill—can he access this secure data? Which is useful information to have, for him and for whoever's watching his screen remotely, but ...

Those records aren't going anywhere. If he wants to look into it later, he can. Right now, he doesn't. Maybe that's simple preference, maybe it's the result of ... whatever they did. Would he be able to tell? Either way, the preference exists, and the option remains.

There. Decision made. _Do with it what you will,_ Minder Twenty-Six.

He finds a grainy, probably-illegal recording of a performance of "Love Was Her Duty." It's as melodramatic as the trainees in the canteen indicated. He gets the distinct sense that he's supposed to be extremely invested in what's happening, but ... if there's a target audience for doomed Jedi-Sith romance as backed by the New Adasta Philharmonic Orchestra, he's not it.

The instrumental music is fine, at least.

* * *

"Ugh, I fucking hate that opera."

"You hate all operas."

"I hate that opera more than any other opera in existence because everyone in it is _so fucking stupid,_ look, Lord Irsarat has absolutely no reason to believe Kelvosa about the meeting with the Jedi, she _knows_ he's a filthy liar—"

"Fixer. That's the point. The worst possible decisions from the best possible intentions. It's catharsis through tragedy."

"But it makes everyone look like an ass! Especially the protagonist! The _Sith_ protagonist! Who could have been a genuinely interesting character if she weren't a credulous idiot with questionable taste in romantic nemeses! How did this get past the censors?"

"Ask Minder Eighty-One, I think he was on the board that approved the script."

"Maybe I will."

"You do that, Fixer."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure, there is no plan and there is no plot, i am literally just making shit up as i go. i have tried to do epic plotty long fics and they always fizzle because they do not play nicely with how i think or how i write, so instead you're getting ... whatever the hell this is ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> anyway have some overly detailed exposition about stealth tech in the star war and some new npcs

He wakes up several hours early to what is, in all probability, a dark and soggy morning to match the dark and soggy night before. There's no window in the temporary quarters, but ... Dromund Kaas.

There are new data packets loaded onto the datapad, when he checks it. Manuals. For the optics, and for a second set of implants, a stealth field generator and subdermal emitter net.

He skims the first manual—most of it is familiar, flash-induced information corroborated by regular text—and then takes his time with the other. That's familiar, too, but he didn't realize he even _had_ the stealth system.

... The stealth tech went undetected. Appropriate. Maybe even funny? Maybe.

Kinetic power supply—functionally unlimited as long as he can still move. More suited to fast, quiet infiltration and exfiltration than stationary surveillance or sniping. It can be overcharged for a larger field, enough to mask multiple people, but that section is covered in warnings. Dire ones. No doubt he'll recall them in excruciating detail when he inevitably has to ignore them at some point.

The emitter net is a series of filaments extending out from the generator itself to secondary nodes at major joints—shoulders, hips, elbows, knees, wrists, ankles—and the base of the skull; finer threads spider out of the secondary nodes. Rather than the single, cylindrical field produced by a standard stealth unit, it produces multiple smaller fields, closer to the body and therefore more difficult to detect. It's the same principle as certain stealth suits, but internal: minimize the extraneous visual distortion.

There's no scarring. He's not sure how to feel about that.

The basic field is easy enough to activate. There's a faint noise, a sort of flicker-snap, and a staticky chill spiders along his spine, down his limbs. He looks at his hands, and can't see them on the visible light spectrum. The field seems to extend into the near infrared, but sliding his vision further along the scale fades them back into view.

He tilts his head and adjusts the stealth field, widens the spectrum of wavelengths it interferes with. The warm-body glow vanishes. Much better. Basic thermal scanners won't see him. Should be fine to leave it there; the power draw is well within the safe range, so he won't cook himself or melt his vertebrae or otherwise personally experience any of the other exciting and unpleasant fates described in the overcharging section.

Six-second reset if the field is broken. Energy discharge will do it—electrical shock, incoming or outgoing blasterfire. So will sharp physical impact. He claps, and while the sound is muffled by the sonic dampeners there's a crackling digital shimmer that briefly outlines his hands and forearms before subsiding. He paces across the room, back and forth. As long as he's careful, the shimmer doesn't reappear. Running at full speed might not break the field entirely, but it will disrupt it, make it less effective.

Injury severe enough to damage the emitters won't render the entire system inoperable, just less effective; still-functioning sections can compensate once the field resets. Granted, if he's ever injured that badly, he'll probably have other problems, and six seconds is a very, very long time in a fight.

He shuts off the field, and the staticky chill evaporates with a hiss.

Next order of business: food. Which means the canteen. Again. At least it's early enough that people will probably be as bad at _being people_ as he is.

* * *

"You approved the script for 'Love Was Her Duty,' right?"

"I—well, I was involved, I suppose. Why?"

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why did you?"

"Oh! It's a highly effective cautionary tale about the dangers of giving the enemy the benefit of the doubt. Fantastic depiction of Jedi detachment as anathema to Imperial values."

"Did we watch the same—you know what, never mind, I don't care. Have a lovely day."

"Er ... you, too?"

* * *

He resists the urge to reactivate the stealth field while acquiring and eating breakfast, and counts it as a win. Nursing a mug of caf in solitude—which he decides is _the_ most positive experience he's had since waking up in the sublevels—seems to be an unremarkable, even respectable, course of action.

And then: training.

The first day is mostly combat-related assessment rather than new information. Instructors in grey uniforms run him through a series of tests—marksmanship with various weapons, knife fighting, hand to hand. He has no memory of being taught how to fight, but his body remembers how to move. He's better with a blaster pistol than a sniper rifle, and _very_ good with knives.

"Not bad for a clean slate," grunts the melee instructor, after the last round.

The trainee he's been sparring against, a tall woman with a sharp jawline, looks directly at him for a moment, face unreadable, then nods minutely. He's not sure what the nod is meant to convey—general approval? Or is she like him? He doesn't get the chance to ask; the instructor mumbles something about "baby snipers" and sends her off on some errand involving them.

"As for you," says the instructor, turning to him, "you're done for the day. Hope you didn't get too comfortable in the temp quarters—you're back in the barracks with the rest of the newbies. Have fun. If they didn't scrape that out too."

Emotional reaction. Unpleasant. Sort of a low, oily burn. He keeps his expression blank and waits for the instructor to roll his eyes and grumble something near-unintelligible that sounds sort of adjacent to "dismissed." He leaves, and nobody stops him, so it's clearly fine.

* * *

"Well. Results like that ... I'm convinced. He might actually still be useful even if he should not be allowed to talk to other humans."

"Your grudging approval is the highlight of my career, Fixer."

"No offense meant, of course, I'd never cast aspersions upon your brainwashing technique."

"Next time you come up with some nasty new toy you're convinced will revolutionize warfare, do let me know so I can hover over your shoulder being judgemental."

"I mean ... let _me_ know when they have him start using that stealth system."

"Oh, is that one of your designs?"

"Did you really think I was _hovering over your shoulder being judgemental_ solely because I enjoy your company, dear Minder?"

"Ah, but you do enjoy it."

"To my eternal chagrin."

* * *

The next several days are a relentless barrage of information, assignments, evaluations, and people. He hasn't heard from Minder Twenty-Six since that first night, but he can guess where the instructors' notes are going.

Or maybe not. Maybe her involvement ended when he didn't collapse within a day of waking up. The lack of confirmation one way or another is vaguely unsettling.

Regardless, it is indeed an improvement to have something to focus on. And the trainee barracks proper have actual windows. Small ones, but windows nonetheless.

It's dark and soggy outside.

Training alternates between classroom-style and practical instruction. Some of the information is the same sort of almost-familiar as the layout of the facility; some of it is completely new. After another full day of testing and assessment, he's tossed in with the stealth and infiltration specialists, under the tutelage of a wiry man who introduces himself as Agent Riller.

There's a single Zabrak in the group; the other four are human. He's the only cyborg, and as far as he can tell, the only "clean slate." He doesn't have to make any small talk, so the introductions aren't a disaster. Riller has them running a series of obstacle courses—mocked-up hallways scattered with movable panels and boxes of various sizes, lined with stationary sensors and roaming drones that will trigger an alarm if they detect someone.

"If you can't hide without a stealth field, you can't hide with one," Riller says. "No _gadgetry_. Not until I know that all of you can do this the old-fashioned way."

The Zabrak, Arran Siune, is the first to trigger an alarm. Riller tears into her for nearly two full minutes, then sends her back to try again. "Keep your scarlet arse in cover or I'll shoot you myself," he says pleasantly.

The sensors spot all of them, repeatedly, as Riller increases the speed of the sensor sweeps and the scarcity of already-intermittent cover. No one else receives a tongue-lashing. Siune's overall performance is among the best. Her face remains icily composed throughout the session.

Afterward, they troop back upstairs to the main level of the facility in a loose group; then two of the human trainees peel off together as if they have somewhere to be.

The remaining three collectively pause as they reach one of the main intersections. "Well," says the other human, a freckly woman called Degan Jast. "I'm officially starving."

"Is that an invitation?" says Siune.

"Statement of fact, unless you're interested, in which case yes," Jast says cheerfully.

Siune shrugs. "I have nothing else planned."

Jast looks at him, raises an eyebrow. "Telassa?"

He'd really rather not, but he has several full days of memory to work with, now, and several minutes of excruciating discomfort to illustrate how _not_ to approach this. "Why not," he says.

Jast-no-really-call-me-Degan leads the way to the canteen. She is ... very talkative. Which is good, because it means he doesn't have to contribute much to the conversation.

Degan is from Ziost. New Adasta, to be precise. She thinks Kaas City is a miserable hellhole, but the food is better here than back home, so she'll survive. She misses sunshine. She hears there was a break in the clouds about a week after she arrived, but she's been so very busy with training and therefore missed the city-wide migration to rooftops and open plazas to stare dumbfounded at the sliver of blue sky before it vanished behind stormclouds again.

"It's just so gloomy here!" she says, shaking her head.

Weather. Complaints. _Again._ At least it's not huttball.

"It's always gloomy here," Siune says. "There's no point in whining about it."

... Maybe he could have said that out loud and it wouldn't have been a catastrophe?

"No, no, see, you're just resigned to the misery," Degan says, spearing a piece of fruit and gesturing with it. "You're from Dromund Kaas, right? You don't know any better."

Siune narrows her eyes slightly, then breaks into a smile. "Careful, there, Degan," she says. "You might actually provoke me into showing some civic pride."

Degan laughs. "Great! You can tell me all the fun stuff for when they let us off base."

"Getting bored already, are we?"

"Nope, just planning for the future," Degan says primly. She looks at him, then, and says, "You're awfully quiet, aren't you?"

"No comment," he says.

She seems to take it as a joke rather than a statement of fact, chuckling again. "Are you a local, too? You sound local."

He shakes his head. At least he can actually answer the implied question. "I'm from Beshka." And his accent seems to default to the most standard of Imperial Basic, whatever the planetary variant sounds like.

"Isn't that one of those agriworlds on the Rim?"

"Yes, it is."

Degan hums thoughtfully. "So you're, what, a farmer turned spy?"

"Possibly," he says, because he doesn't _know,_ but lying outright would require much more background information than he has available, and telling her that he can't remember any of it is just asking for more questions he doesn't want or know how to answer.

... Not that the ambiguous response is much better.

She frowns, eyes him for a moment, then glances at Siune before her gaze flicks back to him. "Not one for chit-chat, I take it," Degan says, her tone slightly too leading.

"You seemed to have things well under control, in that department," he says.

Siune barks out a laugh and pats Degan on the shoulder, condescending. "He's got you there, sunshine."

Degan pouts. "You wound me. I'm _wounded."_

And she goes back to her easy chatter with interjections from Siune. She shoots him the occasional sharp look, but doesn't push again.

It occurs to him that despite all the talking, Degan has yet to reveal anything truly personal. How or why she ended up in Intelligence, for instance.

Obfuscation through inconsequential information overload rather than evasion, deception, or silence. Put dozens of agents-in-training in a room together and ask them to socialize—and of course they'll complain about the weather.

Meteorology is rarely personal, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which our intrepid protagonist learns more handwavey spy stuff and finally has that existential crisis \o/

Slicing is a challenge, but an engaging one. Much of the process can be automated—computer spikes are part of the standard field kit, after all—but knowing how to do it manually is useful _and_ interesting.

During the course of slicing instruction, he appropriates an old datapad from a heap of junked electronics bound for the recyclers—the drive's been wiped, the screen is cracked, and the network connection is completely dead. Hardware problem, not software, and not worth fixing, which is why it wound up in the pile.

He types out lists on the datapad, then deletes them. Not frequently, not enough to make it a true habit, but when he's tired or frustrated, it's helpful to see things written down, if only for a few minutes. And he likes having something that's just his, something that no one else can see; and even if they did, they wouldn't find anything revealing.

Stealth training is satisfying for similar reasons. He quickly masters the standard, external generators—basic belt-mounted stealth units, and the more sophisticated suits—and then gets cleared to use his own cybernetics by a Fixer who seemed peeved that he hadn't been using them the whole time. Agent Riller acquiesces with ill grace, then increases the difficulty of his security system obstacle courses accordingly. Including randomly electrified surfaces to break the field and force him to do things the old-fashioned way.

That was a fun little discovery. He's never going to trust a slightly uneven floor tile ever again. He hears Degan hiss in sympathy over that one, clear across the room; Siune does one of her shoulder-pats, afterward, and while the contact itself feels strange, she isn't smirking, so he assumes it wasn't meant to be patronizing.

Still. He's _good_ at this. Not perfect, but among the best, with or without the implants.

* * *

*UNTITLED.TXT

positive experiences

  * caf w/o people
  * successful stealth course runs
  * hot water
  * music w/o vocals
  * very pointless knife tricks



negative experiences

  * huttball speculation
  * being detected
  * small talk
  * electrocution (mild, still unpleasant)
  * being watched



> CLOSE DOCUMENT  
DO YOU WANT TO SAVE CHANGES TO "UNTITLED.TXT" BEFORE CLOSING?  
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* * *

Learning how to manipulate people is fascinating precisely because he is _not_ good at it.

"All communication is, on some level, manipulative," says the instructor, Agent Varre. "Most people do it without thinking much of it. In the field, your job is to do it deliberately, under pressure, for a specific purpose."

Then Varre outlines what they'll be studying. How to read people, and how to be unreadable. How to get people talking. How to persuade and coerce and soothe. How to command a room. How to vanish without even moving. How to lure people in, and how to drive them away in the direction of your choosing. How to become someone else.

How to lie.

For some—most?—of the trainees, much of the initial content is just stating the obvious. The handful of former grifters recruited from the galactic underworld look terribly smug about it. But Agent Varre takes that into account, and pushes them to articulate what is, to them, often intuitive. Then Varre tears it apart and breaks it down even further.

Taking a potential source of tension among the trainees and turning it into an asset. It's clever. It makes sense.

He _wants_ to be good at this. When all the systems and rules and considerations are laid out explicitly, they're entirely understandable.

The problem is that understanding something in the abstract is a far cry from actually applying that knowledge in practice. And the tools that come naturally to people like Degan—small talk and chatter to put a mark at their ease—are about as natural for him as spontaneous unpowered flight.

He pays close attention, and wonders if Private Kiall Telassa was any better at talking to people.

* * *

*UNTITLED.TXT

Should have said "Soldier, then spy" to Degan.

  * not untrue but no actual detail needed
  * provides context that fits into established/unremarkable category
  * military transfers are common
  * taciturn soldiers are believable
  * saying "possibly" was vague and evasive
  * evasion in perfectly innocuous conversation is unusual
  * anomalies draw attention



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* * *

The topic of brainwashing does eventually come up in discussion. It would be difficult to avoid it, between the culture clash of nontraditional recruits and born Imperials, the tension between loyalty and self-preservation among the military types, and the fact that brainwashing of various sorts _is_ a fact of life, at Intelligence.

"Why go to so much effort to erase someone's identity and then _hand it back?"_ Siune asks, gold eyes fixed on Minder Fifty as several other trainees go either dead still or conspicuously languid.

He doesn't react at all. He's fairly certain that most of the trainees who did react are not, in fact, like him, while at least two who are, didn't.

Siune does this, sometimes—asks pointed questions that no one else would think to voice. Or dare to. Some instructors seem to regard her as an asset, a useful Jedi's advocate. Others look sour or ignore her. Few actually shout her down, which is interesting. As if for all their disapproval, there's some other factor preventing them from fully expressing it.

Minder Fifty is among the former group. He smiles, unworried. "What would be the point in hiding the truth? We're training spies—we expect, and indeed _require,_ the lot of you to be fully capable of uncovering information that others would prefer you never found. Tell me—there's what, four of you in here now? How many of you have already looked into your pasts?"

There is a long, tense silence: is this a trap, or an honest question? Then the woman he sparred against on his first day raises her hand. "I have, sir," she says. Her voice is even and calm. "Cross-referenced the file I was given with Cartel records. Everything checked out. Apparently I was a pickpocket, among other things, so ... watch your wallets, I suppose."

Siune turns to her. "How do you know you can trust those records? Intelligence has a long reach."

"It does, but the Hutt Cartel guards its databanks well. That would be a great deal of effort to mislead a single prospective field agent about something ultimately inconsequential. I doubt I'm secretly a Republic operative brainwashed to be a weapon of the enemy." The woman pauses, then shrugs. "Although it's not completely out of the question. And there are other ways to hide data than tampering with the source itself. I can't be certain that I actually accessed the real Hutt databanks, for one."

"And now we venture into the murky waters of data security and ... practical epistemology, perhaps?" says Minder Fifty. "But if you'll all kindly extend a modicum of trust again—Valsen here is correct. We are well-funded, but it would be a waste of time and resources to deceive a non-trivial subset of our personnel with falsified histories." He spreads his hands, regards them all with a wry look. "Imperial Intelligence is your _employer,_ not your enemy. We will lie to you, use you, withhold information from you—but only when it's mission-relevant."

"And you'll tell the truth when it will buy cooperation," says Siune. "Or when it doesn't cost you anything to reveal it."

Minder Fifty beams at her. "Precisely!"

Siune inclines her head. "Elegant."

Not the word he'd use— _effective,_ maybe—which might be another indicator of his altered priorities. Or it might just be a natural, minor difference in phrasing. Does it matter whether it's natural or not? Is his answer to _that_ question the result of the conditioning?

He's distracted throughout the rest of the period; he catches himself watching Valsen and not taking in a word that Minder Fifty is saying.

And he still hasn't dug any deeper into Kiall Telassa's past, he realizes, halfway back to the barracks. He still doesn't think of himself as Kiall Telassa. The name is just a collection of sounds that people happen to use for him when they're not calling him "trainee." Which is definitely the result of conditioning, but—how many layers deep does it go?

 _Is_ he Kiall Telassa? Does he want to be? Does it matter?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up kids shit's about to get real existential and weird

He feels no connection to the name on his personnel file or the person in it. He knows that the detachment itself is the result of what Minder Twenty-Six did to him, but there's another layer of potential control beyond the detachment itself: the fact that it doesn't bother him.

How many layers beyond that? The paranoid answer would be _one more than you're aware of._ N plus one. Which is all very well and good, but there's an upper limit. Time, funding, feasibility and subtlety of the control, diminishing returns ... After a certain point, surely it's no longer cost-effective. And does the fact that he's obsessing over that break point indicate that he's already found it? He doesn't feel like Kiall Telassa, he doesn't care that he doesn't feel like Kiall Telassa, but the idea that it's not _him_ not-caring is—upsetting? Distressing?

Bad.

... He's overthinking this. Pure speculation won't provide any answers, not when the subject of speculation is the reliability of his own mind.

So he grits his teeth and talks to people.

He approaches two of the Minders involved in the program. Not Minder Twenty-Six. He wouldn't know where to find her, even if he were inclined to do so. Which he is not.

(It's not fear, exactly. Something adjacent to fear. A problem for later.)

"Of course you're the same person you were before," Minder Sixty-Four says, with an air of barely resisting the urge to pat him on the head or pinch his cheek or something equally distasteful. "Just think of it as a fresh start. A little amnesia doesn't change who you truly are."

Minder Sixty-Four does not, he notes, mention the cognitive and emotional modifications.

"Certainly not," says Minder Seven. "The person who walked into that room is not the same person who walked out of it. Same chassis, some other useful bits and pieces, but a completely different processor and operating system."

Promising.

He moves on to the actual clean slates. A dark-eyed human in the sniper training group: "I don't think it's as simple as a yes or no. The person I was before informs who I am now. I wouldn't exist without them. But there's still a disconnect, so ... I'm not sure. There's enough of them in me to matter, but not enough to say for certain."

A Togruta with deep green patterns on his montrals: "It's still my name, my life. I'm the one who decides who I am and what that means. I'm different, but ... I can only ever be me."

A human with a deep scowl: "Don't care. Piss off."

He retreats from that one in a hurry.

His final interviewee proves difficult to locate in their offset off hours, but he catches her after another lecture on deception from Agent Varre. "Valsen."

"Telassa," she says, raising an eyebrow. "What can I do for you?"

"Can I ask a somewhat personal question? Two, actually."

"Depends on the questions, but go on."

"Which Minder worked on you?"

"... Seven," she says slowly.

One he's spoken to. Good. "Do you consider yourself to be the same person you were before the psychological conditioning?"

She blinks. "Well, yes. I'm still Orinda Valsen. I'm just better equipped to handle the job. Fewer distractions."

Distractions meaning memories? Personal and emotional baggage? Something else? Irrelevant; the important thing is the discrepancy between responses. "Interesting."

"... You disagree, I take it," she says.

"I've asked five other people and gotten five different answers. Two Minders, including yours, and three like us."

She seems to search his face. Then her eyes widen slightly. "You're not looking for the truth. You're checking to see if our answers were programmed in."

He nods. "Exactly. I don't think they were. Content, phrasing, none of it matches. Small sample size, but since _all_ of the responses were unique, and you disagreed with your Minder ..."

"So what's your answer?" she asks.

He hesitates, then exhales. He loses nothing by telling the truth. And it's ... strange, to have a truth worth telling. Strange in a good way, he thinks. "Kiall Telassa is dead. I'm someone else." Not much of a someone, but definitely _else._

"How do you know you're not him?"

"How do _you_ know you're still her?"

They stare at each other for a moment. Then Valsen bursts out laughing and raises her hands in mock-surrender. "Epistemology again?"

"Let's not and admit we didn't," he says, pulling his mouth into a crooked smile, to signal that it's a joke.

Valsen rolls her eyes, still laughing under her breath. "Back to espionage, then."

* * *

"You're awfully gloomy today."

"Minder Seven just informed me—quite smugly—that _my subject_ went to _her_ with questions."

"... Ouch."

"As if she'd know anything! As if she has any bloody clue what she's talking about!"

"There, there. What was he even asking about?"

"Identity, apparently. Whether or not he's still himself. You know, the thing he pointedly did not ask _me_ about when he woke up."

"You could just tell him anyway. Do your hallway ambush thing again, give him a scare, it'll be good for him. Keep him on his toes."

"No, no, no. It's just a phase. They all go through it in one form or another. And it's not that he's asking other Minders, it's that—ugh. I hate Seven."

"Really? I had no idea."

_"Ugh."_

"... You talked to him before you started, right?"

"Had to, in order to get a sense of what I was working with."

"So is he? Still himself, that is."

_"_ _Obviously._ He's just significantly more useful now. The new version might bear little resemblance to the original, but I didn't _kill_ him. Field agents kill people. I make them better at it."


End file.
